


Treehouse

by Xanoka



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DIY, Family, Gen, Grief, Healing, Mischief Managed, treehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4969837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanoka/pseuds/Xanoka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teddy's growing up and Harry decides it's time for some family-bonding, magic-free DIY. Because some things are worth effort. Some family fluff, because I love Paternal Harry, and Teddy is the cutest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treehouse

“You don’t have to do this, Uncle Harry.”

Large green eyes stared back at him, currently the exact same shade as his.

“It’s OK, Teddy.  I want to.”

Harry examined the pile of timber he’d had delivered, then glanced up at the looming beech tree, frowning.  It was looking rather alarmingly wide, but at least it had thick, strong branches.  Still, this was going to take some doing.

Behind him Harry could hear muffled laughter and determinedly ignored it.  Ginny and Andromeda were watching from the kitchen window, and he had no desire to invite their mockery.

Teddy was still watching him doubtfully.

“It’ll be really hard, though, won’t it?  The tree is really high.  How are you going to get all that up there?”

“Well, I thought we could maybe make a winch system to get the timber up there, and we’ll get a ladder and make some kind of scaffolding until we’re high enough and then, when your Uncle Ron comes round we’ll-“

“But why don’t you just use magic?”

Harry paused, stymied.

Magic was the obvious answer, of course.  For all he knew there was probably a ready-made spell crafted just for this purpose.  A few levitation charms, some cutting and sticking charms, a colouring spell for decoration and it would be over. 

It would be easy.

He looked at Teddy again.

The years since the end of the War hadn’t been easy. 

First there had been the grey days.  Days of funerals, memorials, visiting bereaved relatives and sharing tears.  Days of dodging the press and the sickening cheerfulness of those who had lost nothing and gained everything through their own inaction.

Then reality had reasserted itself.  People went back to school, back to jobs, back to living.

For Harry, pushing down the grief, focusing on the present, doing the simple everyday things, like getting up and going to class (and later work), had taken _effort._

Smiling for Teddy had taken _effort_. 

Harry could feel it, and he could see it reflected in the deepening lines around Andromeda’s eyes.  He could hear it in the miniscule hitch in her breath when Teddy’s hair turned a certain colour, or the slight quiver in her voice when she sometimes said his name.

More importantly, what Teddy’s parents had given for them had been costly.

So it only seemed right that what he gave back to their son should be costly too.

Since his own parents had died until he’d met Hagrid and gone to Hogwarts, no one had ever gone out of their way for Harry’s benefit.  No one had made him breakfast, or helped him with his homework, or attended school events for him.  Harry had sewn his own homemade name-tags in his clothes and patched the holes in them himself.  Certainly, no one had made him toys or built a tree house.  The Dursley’s, of course, wouldn’t have dreamed of building a tree house, even for Dudley, had he been capable of climbing a tree.  

Harry looked at Teddy, eyes and hair morphed to match his, wearing one of Remus’ old jumpers – much too big for him, of course – and with a smudge of dirt on his nose.  He simply seemed worth so much more than a few waves of a wand and muttered words.

That would all be rather difficult to put into words.

Instead he smiled.

“I’ll tell you what, Teddy.  Once we finish this tree house, you can ask me that again and I’ll tell you.  For now, why don’t you go and ask Gran if she has a screwdriver?”

Teddy rolled his eyes and pounded off down the garden, shouting for his grandmother.

Hours, an Uncles Ron and George, much cursing and many splinters later, a battered-looking, leaning hut stood in the spreading arms of the beech, sporting a rather dashing sign, painted in a childish scrawl reading:

MISCHIEF MANAGED.

 

 

 


End file.
